Opus

‘I went to The Stowe,’ Master Sharpe said, looking out of the little window to the ranks of mountains around them, ‘because I wanted to become wise, and to learn from wise people. And I left because I saw that this was not the point of the place, but rather -‘

‘- knowledge?’ said Alo.

‘Power,’ said Sharpe.

Guthmund gave a snigger, as if to say that the possibility of an island of scholars having any power was ridiculous. ‘You think, they’re useless scholars, the island is an island of books and dreams – how could they possibly have power?’ said Sharpe, ignoring Guthmund.

‘Because people – people like us, I mean – dream of The Stowe. We dream of sharing their dreams.’ Alo wished Guthmund was on one of the mountain peaks, far away from the little schoolroom, where he was annoying both him and his teacher.

Sharpe nodded. ‘Exactly. And Wisdom is not a dream, or made of dreams. Wisdom is a hard worker, with its sleeves rolled up, out in the world learning real things about real things.’

‘Can’t books be real things? And what’s written in them – isn’t knowledge a real thing?’

Master Sharpe smiled and paused slightly. ‘It’s because you make distinctions like this that you’ll enjoy The Stowe. But you must make honest distinctions. Do not mistake knowledge and wisdom for each other. Don’t split hairs in order to lie to yourself. I found myself doing that before I possessed the quality which makes Wisdom different from Knowledge.’

There was a silence. Guthmund kept fidgeting and sighing. Something, like a cord strung tight between two posts, thrummed between Alo and Master Sharpe. ‘Do you know what that thing is, Alo?’

Alo turned the two terms this way and that in his mind and could not discern any practical different. Somewhere in his thirst for more knowledge about more things there was a picture, a feeling, of The Stowe, with its towers and libraries, halls and colleges, full of powerful minds which could flip and turn the toys of thought however they pleased. He had dreamed of being in such a place, and learning how to master these toys, since he could remember. He did not want to hear that Master Sharpe, his only teacher, had found it vain and empty. Surely, if you learned enough, and you gained the approval of that place of immense age and strength, surely wisdom was whatever you decided it to be?

‘Time, master?’

Master Sharpe stared steadily at him, and Alo knew that his teacher had detected the deception and was disappointed in him. ‘Courage, Alo. What distinguishes wisdom from knowledge is courage. Knowing is only a matter of space in your head, and a powerful enough engine to manipulate the knowledge. Wisdom requires bravery.’ He sighed and turned away.

‘I wanted to write a great work, an opus sapientiae,’ he said. ‘One which would win me a fellowship and throw a light, like a candle in a dark room, on the link between the signs we make and the things themselves. It would show the game of lies and idols which lies behind words, and reveal the majesty of the world and how precious it is.’

‘Did you write it?’ said Alo eagerly. This opus sounded as if it would be worth the hard work of reading it. But Sharpe shook his head.

‘I found that I could not write it there. I was afraid – yes, Alo, even me – of the posturing and cruel characters. I was tired, and afraid, and alone. To write the truth, you need the truth all around you. I found that The Stowe was a place of reflections and echoes. Very little is created there, and much repeated. For every true opus there are a thousand empty commentaries and split hairs about it – knowledge, certainly, but not wisdom, and not new.’

‘But still,’ said Alo defensively, ‘you had to go to The Stowe to work that out. You had to satisfy yourself that it did not contain wisdom. So it was worth it in the end, surely?’

Master Sharpe smiled ruefully. ‘You have me there,’ he said. ‘I had to learn a great deal to discover that it was merely echoes of things said many, many generations ago – and that the people who wrote the Great Works, had not enjoyed the comfort and power of The Stowe, but were in the real world, and often poor, afraid, laughed at, and alone. Their work is taken by the scholars of The Stowe, who write empty commentaries on works they could never have created. They long to create, but they cannot relinquish the safety, the empty fame which precludes creation. And when I understood that, I left. It took courage, and I left heartsick and bereft.’

‘Perhaps I’ll be different,’ said Alo diffidently.

‘Perhaps,’ said his teacher. ‘At least you have my example before you.’